I think I know. I almost know.

I am in a room with many voices speaking. I don’t know which belongs to the new characters. Maybe none does.

The characters haven’t come to me yet. They are ripening in the ethos. Their voices aren’t clear. I still hear voices past and gone.

I hear the rich, deep, calm quiet of  noble David Emory. I am still occupied by his found-friend McGill who is the worst of me. I still carry Byrne, who is, worse, the uber-uber me. I hear Terry Marsh, emerging from his not-ness to become something greater than human. I am listening to ethereal, murderous Carson. They are still sitting in the chairs that future characters will occupy. I can’t push them out of the internal room. I won’t.

I am troubled (a little) that I don’t know the name of my new principal female character. It disturbs me (a little less) that my hero’s face and deepest nature still elude me. I am troubled that my tertiary character is already delivering polemics into my notebook, although I’m not quite sure what he wants to be.

This will be a story about concrete canvases and spiritual ones. But I have not yet found a way to draw the tale into the realm of beauty and spiritual conflict. I want the balance to be right. I can’t be nervous about the elements that have not materialized. Not yet. The chairs in my head will fill be filled  in time. The characters will become real. The rest–the unfamiliar shape of the story, the fact that I find myself led in directions that are not exactly comfortable or natural to me–will resolve itself when it’s ready.

Is there a way for the past and future live in the same moment? To love what is finished and also what has not yet shaped itself? I expect so. Soon if not now.

One love must make room for another. They haven’t yet. They will.